


Where Is Their Haven at This Hour

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Rusalki and Recompense [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, But the very tender kind of anal fisting, Hurt/Comfort, Little bit of a dom/sub dynamic but just barely, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No non-con takes place in this fic (though previous non-con is referenced), Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Doubt, Tender wound tending, Tenderness, Use Your Words, salves salves salves across the bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22739971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: Jaskier is struggling with guilt over having not resisted the rusalka's seduction, while Geralt is berating himself for having been the physical instrument of Jaskier's assault. Neither of them knows how to banish the looming spectre of the monster that's come between them.--Jaskier snatched his hand away and pushed to his feet. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”“I know,” Geralt said evenly. “You can’t hurt me.”Well yes, that was perfectly true, but hardly the point. Geralt should know that he was safe now, that Jaskier wouldn’t demand anything from him, or take advantage of a moment of weakness to snatch something Geralt would otherwise never give him. He should have been sure without Jaskier having to say so, but after today, Jaskier certainly didn't blame him.Geralt’s glance slid across Jaskier’s face, then trailed down his body before meeting his eyes again with a frown. “You need to get cleaned off.” Geralt folded himself into as compact a space as possible, and gestured to the tub.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rusalki and Recompense [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627261
Comments: 82
Kudos: 1052





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy International Fanworks Day! Title from the Pushkin poem [The Flower](https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/the_flower_9192), in keeping with our Pushkin theme here. Many thanks to jaunechat for beta-ing.
> 
> If you haven't/don't wish to read the previous fic, all you need to know is that while hunting a rusalka, Geralt was taken over by the rusalka, who then used his body to rape Jaskier. Jaskier then rescued Geralt from certain death, and the rusalka was vanquished. But of course, disposing of the monster didn't solve all their problems.

“Hello again.” Jaskier leaned an elbow on the bar and gave the innkeeper a tight smile. 

The man glanced up, and his eyes widened at the state of Jaskier’s appearance. Then, as his attention passed beyond the dirt and blood, he squinted. “That you, bard?”

“Yes, we’re back. Your rusalka problem’s been taken care of.”

“Ah, oh.” The man’s surprised expression confirmed a suspicion that had been building in Jaskier. “Where’s the witcher, then?”

“Seeing to his horse,” Jaskier said lightly. He had left Geralt glowering at the stable boy, but also suspected he was taking a few moments of privacy to either collect or berate himself. “He’ll take what he’s owed in coin, and also your best room for the night.”

The innkeeper scowled. “Well now, I never agreed--”

“Tell me, good sir,” Jaskier said, leaning further over the bar. “What kind of sacrifice did the rusalka take each year?”

“Well.” The man dropped his eyes and fiddled with an empty tankard. “You know.”

“I don’t. Never met a rusalka. What does she take?”

“She’s been terrorizing this town since I was a lad,” he said slowly, and glanced around the room. Jaskier simply waited until the man continued on his own. “But if she’s gone, like you say, I suppose she can’t take revenge for telling her secrets.” He leaned conspiratorially close to Jaskier. “It’s not just that she killed a man. Whomever that man loved, she hurt. Her way of torturing him before she took his life. Two years ago, a woodsman and his wife, rusalka got the woodsman, wife was left raving and witless wandering on the road. Never did get a straight answer out of her about what happened. Last year, the rusalka took a merchant passing through. They never found him, but the girl in town he’d been courting, she turned up frozen to death on the banks of the river, not a stitch on her.”

“Very poetic.” For once, Jaskier had no urge to compose a song.

“We figured a witcher, no friends, no love, the rusalka wouldn’t be able to hurt him like that,” the innkeeper said with a shrug.

“And you didn’t think to mention anything about that to the man you sent after her?” Jaskier asked through his teeth.

“Well, but he’s not a man, is he.”

Jaskier looked at the innkeeper until the man looked away, fidgeting with the tankard again.

“Your best room,” Jaskier said. “And have someone run him a bath.”

Geralt stepped inside, blocking most of the light from the doorway with his broad shoulders and the outline of two swords over his back. His expression was thunderous, and river water dripped from his hair and armor, giving him the appearance of an angry, half-drowned rat. He approached the bar and gave Jaskier an assessing look before turning to the innkeeper. “My fee.”

“Yes. Of course.” The man fumbled a bag of coins from his purse and put it in the witcher’s hand, then quickly retrieved a room key and pressed that on him as well. “Baths are at the end of the hall, on the left.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier sweetly. “And for the offer to send up some supper. You’re too kind.”

The innkeeper might have started to scowl, but he glanced at Geralt before looking back at Jaskier and giving a curt nod. Jaskier picked up his lute case, curled a hand around Geralt’s elbow, and steered him away towards the corridor.

“I didn’t negotiate for room and board,” Geralt said, half turning to glance over his shoulder at the innkeeper.

“He was feeling generous. It’s the least he can do.” Jaskier felt Geralt shivering under his touch and tightened his grip a little. “The very least."

Once the bath was drawn, Geralt wasted no time stripping down. Jaskier wasn’t far behind him, though he did pause at the sight of his trouser fastenings-- one button torn off and others hanging by scant threads from where Geralt had torn at his clothes. But it hadn’t been Geralt; Jaskier had only himself to blame for not resisting the rusalka’s allure. His weakness, and his damnable vanity, had made him an accomplice in the rusalka’s use of Geralt. He crumpled his shirt in his hands and breathed out, reminding himself he was safe here, and the rusalka was not coming back. 

Finally he realized Geralt was staring at the bath, with its steam rising invitingly, and not moving. “You go first,” Jaskier said. “You need to get warm.”

Geralt turned his head to frown at Jaskier, then nodded shortly. He folded his wet clothes into a bundle and dropped them on a bench along the wall. His boots were already propped upside down to drain. With automatic movements, he loosened the cord that held back his hair and tossed it atop his pile of belongings before climbing into the tub so gracefully he barely disturbed the surface. Almost immediately, he dunked his head under the water. He stayed under so long that Jaskier hastily finished stripping off his boots, hurried to the side of the tub, and plunged in a hand. “Geralt!”

As soon as Jaskier’s hand touched flesh, Geralt surged up, tossing his head back to get his hair out of his eyes and scattering droplets of water across the floor as he did so. Jaskier could feel Geralt still shaking--from the lingering cold, perhaps? He sat for a moment glancing around, as if he’d forgotten where he was, and then his eyes snapped to Jaskier, to Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder. 

Jaskier snatched his hand away and pushed to his feet. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Geralt said evenly. “You can’t hurt me.”

Well yes, that was perfectly true, but hardly the point. Geralt should know that he was safe now, that Jaskier wouldn’t demand anything from him, or take advantage of a moment of weakness to snatch something Geralt would otherwise never give him. He should have been sure without Jaskier having to say so, but after today, Jaskier certainly didn't blame him.

Geralt’s glance slid across Jaskier’s face, then trailed down his body before meeting his eyes again with a frown. “You need to get cleaned off.” Geralt folded himself into as compact a space as possible, and gestured to the tub. 

Jaskier considered what he looked like: the skin around his left eye swollen and reddening. Blood seeping from his split lip, perhaps still smeared across his face with the dirt of the riverbank. The red mark of a bite at his shoulder, pricks of red showing in a neat circle where the skin had been broken. Hair crusted together in clumps by substances best left unexamined. The rings of abraded skin around his wrists where he’d been held, and darker marks in a fingerprint pattern at his hips. He wasn’t certain if there was blood between his legs, where his hole still throbbed with dull, persistent pain, but he didn’t want to draw Geralt’s attention to that, anyway. It was no wonder the innkeeper hadn’t argued with him. He looked at Geralt, whose frown had deepened. 

“It’ll lend authenticity to my songs next time I perform,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice light. “A few souvenirs from fighting at the side of the noble White--”

“Don’t,” Geralt snapped. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then gestured again to the empty half of the tub.

Jaskier climbed in, gingerly. He was unable to suppress a flinch at the scalding temperature of the water, but he lowered himself in until he was up to his neck, grasping at the sides of the tub to try to find a position that put less pressure on his sore ass. 

Though they were almost touching, Geralt kept his eyes on the surface of the water, shoulders hunched. Little waves emanated from him as he continued to shake. Jaskier tried not to stare, but he was starting to wonder how worried he should be. Geralt’s usual modes in the tub included “efficient scrubbing only,” "grumbling about being in the bath," and “satisfied jungle cat." This inactivity, this emptiness didn’t feel right at all.

“Are you still cold?” Jaskier asked tentatively. 

“What?” Geralt looked at him, then at the steaming water, then back at Jaskier. 

“You’re shaking,” Jaskier pointed out. 

Geralt folded his arms over his chest and grimaced. “It’ll pass.”

“You’re certain you're warm enough?” Jasier asked, though he didn’t see how Geralt could still be cold in water that felt to him practically boiling. 

“It must be from the rusalka’s magic. Like expelling a toxin.” Geralt didn’t sound particularly certain. “It’ll pass.”

“All right.” Jaskier hadn’t seen this particular symptom, though he’d patched the witcher up after enough battles. He remembered trembling himself after a fight, sometimes only after the adrenaline wore off and he could consider in greater detail how he’s almost been hideously mauled. Perhaps Geralt was concealing some injury. Jaskier looked him over surreptitiously, but couldn’t see much in water that had gone murky with the dirt they were rinsing off. Jaskier should say something. Delicately bring up an apology for what had happened. Maybe make a gentle joke of the thing, so Geralt wouldn’t be too disgusted by outright talk of feelings. Words were Jaskier's trade-- he’d come up with something just right. 

“I’m sorry," Jaskier blurted. He froze when Geralt fixed his eyes on him. 

“For what?”

“I should have done something.” Jaskier looked down as he remembered how good it had felt, letting the rusalka touch him, just as he’d imagined Geralt might. “I just let it… willingly. I should have resisted it. I didn’t--”

“Jaskier.” Geralt waited until the bard looked up at him. “Do you know how easily I could kill you?”

“I think I have an idea,” Jaskier said stiffly. And yes, he hadn’t expected a warm reception for this apology, but he also hadn’t expected outright threats. 

“You don’t.” Geralt’s response was matter-of-fact: not meant to be condescending, only stating the truth. “It would be incredibly easy for me to kill or maim you. Even by accident. Every time I touch you--touch any human--I have to be careful. When the rusalka attacked you, she wasn’t trying to kill you. That wasn’t my full strength.”

Jaskier’s muscles twitched as he remembered the inexorable power of Geralt’s grip, holding him down, helpless as a child. But Jaskier was nothing compared to a striga, or a selkimore, and Geralt had bested those creatures almost as easily. “I know you can kill,” he said. “I’ve seen what you can do.” 

Geralt spread his hands wide, sloshing water out of the tub. “Then Melitele’s tits, what makes you think that anything you could have done would have stopped me?”

Jaskier shook his head. That wasn’t the point. “At least I could have not cooperated with her, not let her--”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Geralt said. Jaskier looked to see if Geralt really meant it, or was just placating him. Geralt frowned back at him savagely, which usually meant he thought Jaskier was being very dense. “I suppose I wish you hadn’t antagonized her into attacking you at the end, but I understand why.”

“It’s not... I wanted it.” Jaskier’s face heated in a way that had nothing to do with the water. “The things she made you do--I let her. I liked the way it felt. Until the end, at least.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighed. ”My whole body--everything I am--is a weapon. If she chose to use me to give you pleasure instead of to kill you, I can only thank the stars that brought me such luck.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt, who glowered back at him for a moment, then turned his head away. His knuckles were almost white where he gripped the edges of the tub. Jaskier should say something. Explain that Geralt should hate him. He couldn’t speak.

“You need to scrub.” Geralt pushed himself out of the tub and returned momentarily with a cake of soap and a small cloth. “I’ll see about our dinner.”  
\--

The room the innkeeper had provided was large, with two sturdy beds, a rough-hewn table, and two chairs. Geralt marveled once more at Jaskier's ability to charm. It was seldom enough that anyone added a penny or a kind word to the agreed price of a contract with Geralt. 

A serving girl was laying out the last steaming plate of food upon the table when Jaskier slipped into the room, damp-haired and dressed in fresh clothes. She nodded shyly to Jaskier and shut the door behind her. Now that the dirt and blood had been washed away, his injuries stood out livid against his pale skin. Apparently they hadn’t deterred the girl’s interest, but Geralt didn’t think they looked interesting or rakish. The injuries were an enduring mark of Geralt’s failure. And since he couldn’t turn back the clock, he’d just have to do his best to make it up to Jaskier. 

“There’s food,” Geralt tried.

“Oh, right.” Jaskier settled his lute and his pack by the door, then came to examine the offerings: a respectable spread of bread, cheese, and fruit, two large bowls of stew, and two brimming tankards of ale. The food was better than any Geralt had seen in weeks, but the smell of it soured as it mixed with the lingering scent of blood. Though he was scrubbed clean, Jaskier’s lip was still not scabbed over, and the bite on his shoulder would reek of torn flesh until it was bandaged properly. And there might be other hurts Jaskier hadn’t brought to Geralt’s attention. Jaskier settled himself gingerly on the far chair, and Geralt didn’t miss his wince.

Contemplating his plan of attack, Geralt dropped into the other chair and shoveled in a mouthful of stew, then another, watching until Jaskier listlessly picked up his knife and sliced off a hunk of cheese. As soon as he’d taken a bite, he grimaced, then resumed chewing more slowly. A tooth knocked loose from when he’d struck him, Geralt guessed. He took another few bites of stew, watching Jaskier chew and swallow with painful slowness before he lost patience for strategy. “You need a healer,” he said bluntly.

Jaskier looked up at him, his raised eyebrow looking strange with his left eye swollen nearly shut. “No, I don’t.” Jaskier tore off a hunk of bread and shoved it in his mouth, then sat up straight with his shoulders back, as if to prove his health. “See, om fone,” he insisted through a mouthful of bread.

“Broken bones--”

After a grunt of protest, Jaskier swallowed quickly and said, “Cheekbone is only bruised, not broken. Nose is fine, thank god. Wouldn’t want anything marring my perfectly patrician profile.” He offered a thin smile and posed dramatically, but it wasn’t his best performance.

“There could be bleeding.” When Jaskier said nothing, Geralt pushed. “Inside, I mean.”

“This isn’t my first rough, unwanted fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier snapped, showing a real irritation that only very occasionally broke through his carefree demeanor. “I can judge whether I need a healer, thank you.” He picked up his knife and began aggressively slicing an apple.

“Who--?” Geralt began, then immediately clamped his mouth shut. Jaskier did not owe him any answers, and Geralt couldn’t hare off to murder whoever had hurt Jaskier, at least not right now. 

Jaskier glared back at him, wild-eyed and with his chin raised defiantly. For a moment, Geralt thought Jaskier might tell him to fuck off, but at last he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture that happened to show off the bruises on that wrist, and said brightly, “I’ve been travelling alone since I was a youth. Things happen.”

Geralt knew about being alone on the road, but he’d passed all his trials and become a deadly danger in his own right before he’d set out on the Path. And even after that, there had been some winters at Kaer Morhen--the comfort and companionship of his fellows, and an encouraging word or two from Vesemir. And if there wasn’t much kindness to be found out on the road, at least whenever he ran across another witcher, he could expect to share a friendly drink and a tale or two. Geralt doubted Jaskier had ever passed a pleasant evening with Valdo Marx or any of the other songbirds who were his competition. Did bards have a guild? Could Jaskier go somewhere to be with those who’d take care of him, somewhere like home? Watching the warning look form on Jaskier’s face, Geralt thought not.

“I don’t need a healer,” Jaskier said again. He snatched up his tankard and took a few gulps to demonstrate he wouldn’t be saying anything more. That did happen occasionally, usually when the topic of Jaskier’s past came up. 

“All right.” Geralt picked up his own tankard and sipped at it. 

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at Geralt’s too-easy capitulation. “All right?”

“You know,” Geralt said, with another casual sip. “I have a salve that could help those bruises. And the eye. And we need to bandage that bite, if we can.”

“Fine.” Jaskier took another half-hearted swig of ale, then set down his tankard. “Fine.”

Geralt fetched his pack from the foot of the bed and returned to kneel before Jaskier’s chair. The supplies were all in their proper places, so it was easy to find the jars he needed and set them out on the edge of the table. He looked up to find Jaskier watching him, noticed he could smell Jaskier’s scrubbed-clean skin through the mingled scents of blood and food, and realized that perhaps he should give the man some more space. 

But then Jaskier pushed the sleeves of his doublet up his arms and held out his wrists. No sour-sweet stink of fear reached Geralt, and Jaskier just looked at him, waiting. Geralt opened the first jar of salve and began applying it as gently as possible to the bruises.

“Your dinner will get cold,” Jaskier said, after Geralt finished with his wrists.

“This will help more the sooner it’s used.” True enough, but more importantly, Geralt could not bear to sit another moment and watch Jaskier try to eat with silent stoicism.

Jaskier closed his eyes so Geralt could dab a healing ointment that smelled lightly of juniper onto the left side of his face, most of which was shading from red into blue now. His muscles tightened whenever Geralt pressed too hard against the swollen flesh, but he didn’t pull away. 

The bite required Jaskier to strip off his doublet and shirt. It was a circle of small punctures just at the join of neck to shoulder, on Jaskier’s right. It was an inconvenient hurt, difficult to bandage and slow to heal. The rusalka hadn’t done that to subdue Jaskier, but to claim him, mark him, and likely for the pleasure of making him scream. And maybe she’d appreciated the thought of Jaskier having to try to bandage this on his own, after she’d disposed of Geralt. As he applied a salve that would stave off infection his fingers shook. Strange-- he thought that had stopped once he’d gotten warm. 

As he worked, he became aware of Jaskier watching him closely, frowning. “Geralt--”

“Almost done,” Geralt said quickly, and didn’t allow himself to linger to feel the comforting warmth of Jaskier’s skin. 

Jaskier sat still and obedient as Geralt bound up the wound with a bandage that wrapped under the opposite arm. Geralt slid a finger under to make sure it wasn’t too tight, but would stay put even if the bard tossed and turned in his sleep, which he would. He always did. When he was satisfied with the bandaging, he took up the salve again and regarded the bruises on Jaskier’s waist: dark smears perfectly spaced for Geralt’s fingers. He’d been so lucky that this was all the rusalka had done, and that he wasn’t spending his evening digging Jaskier’s grave.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, either.” Jaskier’s words started Geralt out of his reverie, and he looked up to see a small, sad smile on Jaskier’s face.

“Who do you think gave you these wounds?” Geralt growled.

“The rusalka,” Jaskier said firmly. “Go on, this is the last of it.” 

Geralt dipped his fingers in the salve and used the gentlest of touches to spread the salve onto Jaskier’s marked skin. 

“You know,” Jaskier said, “the innkeeper told me this rusalka targets her victim’s loved ones. As a way of hurting them.”

“Oh.” Geralt thought through the rusalka’s attack, and then resolved to have stern words with the innkeeper. 

“It wasn’t you who did all this. I know you wouldn’t.” Then, more quietly, Jaskier said, “Wouldn’t want to.”

“And how do you know that?” The question was out before Geralt could stop it. Jaskier didn’t owe him an explanation, but if Geralt was going to have to put up with Jaskier’s wrong-headed ideas, he wanted to know what he’d done to encourage them. 

“Because if you wanted to, you would have.”

“Hmm?” His hand stilled on Jaskier’s skin. That conclusion was absurd. Not doing something and not wanting something were worlds apart. Witchers weren’t supposed to want but, failing that, not pursuing their wants was what kept them apart and allowed them to do their work without encumbrance. “Jaskier, I… I’m not…”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You don’t owe me anything.” Jaskier snatched his shirt from the table and pulled it on. “You might not believe it, but I do know when to shut up about something. Besides, this food won’t eat itself. We don’t want to disdain the hospitality that I worked so hard at bullying the innkeeper into providing.” So saying, he took another ostentatious gulp from his tankard.

Geralt returned most of the healing supplies to his pack, settled back into his chair, and applied himself to the lukewarm, partially-congealed stew with little appetite. Jaskier tucked into his food efficiently, for once not keeping up his usual flow of observations and gossip. 

Geralt mentally cursed the bluntness of his tongue. He had no idea how to make Jaskier understand. Every moment since they left the river saw Geralt sinking further into a morass of his own making; he should have insisted on sending Jaskier back to town alone, so he wouldn’t need to sit here making polite dinner conversation with the monster who’d attacked him. And no matter what Jaskier said, if Geralt hadn’t let his wants get out of control, the rusalka wouldn’t have been able to use them against Jaskier. Nevertheless, selfishly, seeing Jaskier’s wounds tended to, seeing him whole and safe, did more to soothe the gnawing shame in his belly than all the distance in the world would have done.

“Jaskier.”

The bard tensed, and froze a moment before raising his eyes to Geralt.

“I…” He could apologize. Jaskier would accept, he was almost certain; he tended to be more generous with Geralt’s mistakes than he deserved. Instead, he took a small jar of ointment he’d left on the table and held it up. “You should use this, if you can bear to. You don’t want to be shitting blood for a week.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier watched Geralt set down the jar between them, then stared at it as if it might attack him. 

Geralt quickly pushed out his chair and stood. “I’ll go get us some wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, all! As always, comments make my day. Second (and final) part will be up tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier struggled out of sleep and flailed in the tangled blankets until he realized where he was. The room was dark, with only a bit of weak moonlight filtering in through the dirty windows. He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, but after at least one bottle of wine to his credit, his pain had begun to seem pleasantly fuzzy and far away. The spots Geralt had rubbed salve on felt tingly and numb. The swelling in his face had receded so far that his left eye could open fully. Even if pain still sparked through him when he moved or sat, it was better since he’d used some of the ointment Geralt had given him, as the witcher was obviously not willing to extend his ministrations to any of Jaskier’s more intimate hurts. So no, Jaskier wouldn’t ask Geralt to rub camomille on his lovely bottom, or anywhere else. He wouldn’t ask Geralt for anything, he’d decided, and might even have said as much to Geralt’s face-- he couldn’t remember. 

Now, Jaskier kicked free of his blankets and planted his feet on the floor with only a little difficulty. Not much time could have passed since he and Geralt had stumbled to their beds, because his head still swam with drink. From Geralt’s bed came a soft grunt. Jaskier pushed to his feet and stepped closer, weaving only a little. 

Geralt had squirmed free of his blankets, and was writhing against the bed in only his smallclothes. Despite the chill of the room, his skin was drenched in sweat, strands of hair clinging to his face and his neck. His breath came out in short, shallow bursts of air, punctuated by sounds that might have been called sobs if they’d been given voice instead of choked back in his throat.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his head thrashed back and forth on the pillow. In all their travel together, Jaskier had never seen him like that. He was more usually the one to shake Jaskier out of a sleeping terror featuring the most recent monster they’d encountered, with a firm hand on his shoulder. And awake, there was never a wasted gesture or uncontrolled motion. Now, he seemed not the least bit in control.

“Geralt.” Jaskier stepped closer. He reached out a hand, not yet daring to touch. “Wake up.”

Geralt’s body was tensed all over, back arched and teeth clenched, the lines of his muscles taut and straining. Strangled-off grunts and half-formed words caught in his mouth. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier touched his fingers to Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt’s eyes snapped open, wild and bright yellow in the dark. Before Jaskier could try to get away, Geralt moved in a blur, shoving Jaskier in the chest with his palm, then shouting a word and moving his fingers in a sign. 

Jaskier stumbled back, expecting to fall on his ass, but instead he was cushioned by a warm, bright light. He steadied himself and looked at Geralt, kneeling on the bed, panting as if he’d fought a swarm of Drowners. He was a bit blurry through the golden glow of whatever spell he’d conjured. 

When Jaskier said, more softly, “Geralt?” his attention jerked to Jaskier, and the dome of light faded in a shower of sparks, leaving the room in sudden, inky darkness. 

Geralt exhaled loudly, then was off the bed and standing before Jaskier, clutching his shoulders. “Are you hurt?” He drew Jaskier’s shirt up to look at his chest, then reached out a hand to touch. His fingers felt burning hot against Jaskier’s cool skin, and Jaskier could feel the shaking through them, still. Then he looked Jaskier in the eye. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said, fighting the old excitement at having Geralt so close, and being touched by him besides. “Yes. You’re not.”

Geralt sank down onto the edge of the bed, still taking shuddering breaths. 

“Must have been a nightmare,” Jaskier said.

“Witchers don’t have nightmares,” Geralt muttered.

“Because witchers don’t feel fear. Or any other emotion. Of course.” Jaskier went to stoke the fire, more for light than warmth, though there was still a chance, he supposed, that Geralt’s shaking was the result of cold and not terror. 

Once the fire was arranged, he rummaged in the detritus of their evening meal and triumphantly produced a mostly full bottle of wine. He filled two tankards and brought one to Geralt, then plopped down next to him on the bed, with less coordination than his sore parts would have hoped for. “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

Geralt’s eyes darted towards the wall where his two swords were propped in their scabbards, then quickly away. He took a gulp of wine.

Jaskier tried a different tack. “Was that a spell you did, when you woke up?”

“Quen,” Geralt said shortly. “It’s a Sign, not a spell.”

“Right.” Jaskier rolled his tankard between his palms. “It didn’t hurt.”

“It’s not meant to. It’s a protection spell.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, smiling a little. “And what did I need protecting from?”

“Me.”

“Ah ha.” Jaskier wagged a finger at Geralt. “But you cast the spell.”

“I know.” Geralt was gritting his teeth now, starting to lose his patience. That was good.

“So then you weren’t trying to hurt me.” Jaskier spread his arms wide, mostly not slopping wine onto the floor.

“Jaskier.” Now there was a warning edge to his tone. 

“I’m just trying to understand--”

“I was hunting you.” Geralt set the wine aside and dragged a hand through his hair. “I was following you through a forest. You were trying to get away from me. Hopeless. I got in front of you. You begged me not to hurt you, begged me to stop, but I didn’t. I hurt you, and then I killed you.” His eyes darted to the swords again. “That’s all.”

Jaskier looked at him for another minute, nodding as his wine-slowed mind followed the thread of the narrative. “And then you woke up and cast a protective spell on me.”

“I was still half asleep,” Geralt grumbled.

“But, but, but!” Jaskier poked him in the shoulder. “That was your first impulse.”

Geralt shoved to his feet and began pulling on his clothes from a pile on the floor. 

“What are you doing now?” Jaskier frowned, squinting through the dim firelight with the eyes of a poor mortal. 

“Leaving.” Geralt began shrugging on his armor. “I’m a danger to you. It was stupid of me to stay here.”

“It’s the middle of the night.” Jaskier perched his tankard precariously against the headboard so he could gesture to the windows. “It’s dark!”

“There’s a moon.”

“Geralt, you can’t leave,” Jaskier said, but he couldn’t make out any sign of Geralt slowing his actions. “You know how you get when you don’t sleep.”

“I’m not the one who was injured today,” Geralt said as he pulled on his boots.

“Oh, just possessed by a water monster and then half drowned!” Jaskier pushed to his feet a little shakily and tottered over to the wall where he picked up the case with Geralt’s swords. As Geralt stalked towards him, Jaskier held the case behind his back. 

“Jaskier, give me my swords.”

“No. You had a nightmare. You’re not thinking clearly, and you need to sleep it off.”

“You’re drunk.” Geralt was close enough that Jaskier could smell the wine on his breath too, with just his regular senses. He could feel the heat of his body. Geralt held out his hand, demandingly.

Jaskier shook his head. “Hm-uh.”

“I am leaving. Give me my swords.”

“If you’re such a danger to me, take them.” Wavering only slightly, Jaskier pushed up to his full height so he could look Geralt in the eye. “Hit me, magic me, slit my throat. You’ll have proved your point. If you won’t do that, then you’re no danger to me, and you can stay.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. 

“It’s not pleasant to be afraid, I know that.” Because that’s what this was, Jaskier realized. Panic. He’d never seen it in Geralt before, for all that he was familiar enough with facing it himself. “But you can’t just run off when you’re frightened.”

“Give me my swords.”

“You don’t think I’m afraid, too? I’m afraid every day. I’m afraid that I will do something stupid out there, and you’ll be trying to fix it, and be killed. I’m more of a danger to you than you are to me. I am quite scared that you’re going to die at some point, but if I let fear stop me from being with you, life’s not worth living. I love you, and I think you know that. If I die because I’ve known you, I’d call that a fair trade. You don’t have to feel the same way. But if you think you’re doing me a favor by leaving me alone, you’re wrong.” He held out the swords, and Geralt took them without a word. 

Jaskier stepped past Geralt, snatched up his wine from where it was listing against the blankets, and stood at the window, wiping his arm surreptitiously across his eyes. He stared out the streaky glass at the waning moon, which he felt was appropriately melancholy, and waited for the sound of the door.

Geralt appeared beside him. He stood there for a moment, watching the moon as well, and then said, “Strong feelings make it difficult to think. That’s why witchers are trained to ignore them. I can’t ignore you. I’ve tried.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said primly.

“That wasn’t--” Geralt sighed. “You should be more afraid of me than for me.”

“Well, there’s so much I should do that I don’t.”

“Jaskier...” He seemed unable to go on.

Jaskier decided to take mercy on him. “You know what I think? It’s incredibly bad tactics to endure all the distractions and inconveniences of lusting after me without enjoying any of the benefits.” 

“Such as what?”

“Someone to keep you warm at night. Conversation on the road. Split the cost of lodging. Receive up-to-the-minute fashion advice. Get your wounds sewn up by someone with very talented hands. Practice your cock-sucking skills. Have more love ballads composed in your honor.”

“More?” Geralt’s voice was a bit strangled. 

Jaskier started ticking the items off on his fingers. “Occasionally eat a breakfast made by someone who can cook. Have someone wash your hair while you’re in the bath. Get taken down a peg by my rapier wit when you deserve it. Enjoy the perks of sweet talking innkeepers into free stuff and royal patrons into lucrative contracts. Gain a better understanding of the extant canon of classical ballads. Discover how many times in one night you can come. Be saved from imminent drowning. Learn to--”

Jaskier’s next words were muffled by a kiss. The tankard dropped from Jaskier’s fingers to clunk against the floor, and his hands came up to tangle in Geralt’s hair. When Jaskier pushed forward, Geralt jerked back, holding him at arm’s length. “Are you certain you--”

This time Jaskier cut him off with a kiss. They pressed together, and Jaskier sighed against Geralt’s mouth to feel the length of his body, hard and unyielding. Geralt’s hands slid down to Jaskier’s waist, over the place his fingers had bruised earlier. It didn't hurt exactly. The salve and the wine had seen to that. But Jaskier felt a visceral stab of fear. He didn't want to be caught, held down in the mud, and hurt. Jaskier twitched away, and Geralt immediately let go, holding up both his hands in a gesture of surrender. 

Jaskier tried to slow his breathing. “A moment,” he said. He braced his hands on Geralt’s shoulder, to feel his solid presence beside him, and concentrated on remembering where he was. Not on the chilly riverbank, but in a cozy room, the best one at the inn, rapidly warming from the crackling fire. The planks felt smooth under his bare feet, and beneath his fingers he could feel the bumps of the stitching on Geralt’s armor. He breathed out a chuckle, and risked a glance at Geralt, who was looking at him as if prepared to stand there all night. Giving him his time, as asked. 

And this, Jaskier decided, would not do. The thing is, Jaskier loved sex. He loved love, and he enjoyed all the ways he could use his body to demonstrate that love. There had been times in his life when he thought sex might have been ruined for him, might not ever feel right again. But spite, a powerful motivator, had caused him to try again, and in the end he'd been glad he hadn't let one of his favorite things be taken away. It would be the same this time. Geralt had defeated the rusalka, and Jaskier would defeat her as well.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly. “We don’t need--

“Do you not want to?” Jaskier looked sharply at him, at his damnably handsome face, and his expression of concern and his loose hair that was mussed abominably.

“Wanting and doing are very different things,” Geralt said.

“But you do want to.” Jaskier felt certain of that much.

“There are so many things I want to do with you,” Geralt said, then pressed his lips together as if he’d said more than he meant to. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he stood very still, watching Jaskier as if he were an animal that might spook.

“We could do something…” Jaskier swallowed, as ideas came to mind quite vividly. “Something the rusalka didn't do. Something that won't remind us of her.”

“You can have whatever you want,” Geralt said. “Perhaps it would be better if--”

“So help me, if you say it might be better if we don't do this,” Jaskier said, “I will hit you, and I won't hold back my full strength, like some people.”

The suggestion of a smile appeared on Geralt’s face, and he said, “I was going to say that it might be better if you took charge. That way you can do what you like, and I won't touch you anywhere I shouldn't.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said. The idea sent a jolt of arousal spinning through his body and careening off the parts of him that were the most drunk. Then he managed to rein in his careening whatnot and try to think. “But what if I do something _you_ don’t like?” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

Jaskier sighed impatiently. “I’m not asking if you think you can overpower me if necessary. I’m asking if you’ll say so if you don’t enjoy something.”

“Yes.”

“Promise me.” Jaskier closed his eyes for a second, and saw the rusalka’s too-pleased expression on Geralt’s face. He opened his eyes again quickly. “Just promise. After the day I’ve had--”

“I promise,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier surged forward to kiss him again, and then just kept on doing it, letting himself slowly adjust to the idea that he could do this-- that Geralt in fact _wanted_ him to do this. Trying his new “taking charge” responsibilities on for size, he kept the kiss going while he crowded Geralt against the wall, so his back thumped against the wood, and Geralt allowed it. He pressed his thigh in between Geralt’s legs to feel his hardness, and Geralt allowed it. He tugged Geralt’s hands to relocate them to his ass. Geralt allowed that, too. 

Geralt had managed to assemble most of his outfit before Jaskier had stopped his headlong rush for escape, so they were currently separated by far too many layers. Jaskier pulled away reluctantly and tugged off the shirt he’d fallen asleep in. He said, “Go on,” with an expectant nod toward Geralt’s clothing.

After that, he had the pleasure of standing back and watching while Geralt stripped down to his skin. Jaskier followed his excellent example, though he quickly stepped forward to claim another kiss, so neither of them would have a chance to dwell on his assortment of still-visible injuries. They hardly hurt at all, not with arousal swirling in blood already heated with too much wine. 

“A bed,” Jaskier said, when he’d pulled back for a breather. “Yours or mine?”

“Yours,” Geralt rumbled. “I don’t want to sleep in a wet spot.”

“I hope you know I’ll be with you in whichever bed is dry.” 

“Oh.” Geralt blinked at him, but recovered quickly enough. “Well in that case, it doesn’t matter.”

Jaskier drew Geralt by the hand to his bed, with linens hopelessly tangled from his earlier waking. He swept them all into a heap on the floor. 

“Down.” He pushed against Geralt’s chest with two fingers, and the witcher sat obediently on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, waiting. Jaskier bit back a sound that definitely would not have been a moan, and pushed Geralt back against the bed, climbing on top to straddle him and slide their cocks together. That silenced him for a few moments, until he leaned over Geralt, still moving their bodies steadily together, and asked, “Was she right? When she said you could smell me?”

“Yes.” Geralt’s pupils were wide now, even with the bright fire going, and he pressed his head back into the bed.

“You mean to say,” Jaskier said, tracing his fingers up and down over Geralt’s chest, “whenever I thought I was being coy by pretending not to notice how nice your ass looks in leather trousers, you could tell?”

“Lust is easily identifiable, as scents go,” Geralt bit out. 

“Then I don’t understand.” Jaskier leaned down to press kisses against Geralt’s neck and down onto his shoulders. “If you knew I wanted you, why did you never let on?”

When Geralt said nothing, Jaskier pulled back, stopping the movement of his hips, and Geralt’s eyes snapped to him, incredulous. “I’ll keep going if you answer,” Jaskier said with a wicked grin. “If you wanted me, and you knew I wanted you, then why not have me?”

“Umph.” Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, then said, “There are those who think they’d like to dally with a witcher, but don’t know what they’d be getting into.” 

Jaskier ground down against Geralt again, and dropped a kiss onto his chest. “You can’t argue that would be a problem with me. I know every one of your faults. There’s a list.”

Geralt rumbled in answer. Jaskier swung his leg over to kneel beside Geralt, then presented his hand and said, “Lick.” Geralt obliged, keeping his eyes on Jaskier as his tongue swiped wetly across his palm. “What else?” Jaskier asked.

“There are others whose interest in witchers extends only to their profession. They have no interest in the person, only in novelty and conquest.”

Jaskier reached down to rub his palm against the head of Geralt’s cock and smear the pre-come there, and smiled at Geralt’s indrawn breath. “I’m sorry to say your profession has lost much of its novelty for me over the years. What else?”

Geralt didn’t answer until Jaskier stilled his hand, and then he said quietly, “There are those who try, and find us not to their liking. Too demanding, too frightening, too strange.”

Jaskier gave a disapproving hum, and closed his fingers around Geralt’s cock to give it a good stroke. Geralt’s fingers splayed, his palms pressing into the bed as he struggled not to touch. Jaskier turned to look at him, keeping his hand moving in short, languid pulls on Geralt’s hardening cock. “I’m not some star-struck youth or mooning princess. I know what you are.” 

“Do you?” Geralt asked, a little breathlessly. 

Jaskier arranged himself more comfortably on the bed, so he could easily lower his head over Geralt’s cock and exhale a slow, warm breath. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. 

Geralt shook his head mutely. Then, when Jaskier did nothing except keep up those slight, maddening movements of his hand, said, “Don’t stop.”

Jaskier closed his mouth over the head of Geralt’s cock, and enjoyed the resulting gasp that Geralt bit back. He hummed his approval, then pushed his lips further down. Geralt was big enough to prove a challenge, which gave Jaskier a warm feeling in his breast as he realized he might get to do this again. He could work his way up to swallowing all of Geralt and oh, did he look forward to it. 

For now, he tried first this pace, then that movement of his tongue, this gentle scrape of teeth, that careful swallow around a mouth stretched full. A lifetime full of bedroom tricks seemed insufficient to exhaust the variety of tiny, choked sounds that Geralt was keeping quiet. Though Jaskier appreciated the deference to the sensibilities of their fellow boarders, he found himself pushing for a stronger demonstration of Geralt’s appreciation. He tried using his hands to stroke and fondle, tightening a ring of his thumb and forefinger around the base of Geralt’s shaft, his other hand cupping Geralt’s balls, stroking them in counter rhythm to his mouth’s movements. 

Geralt’s mouth was open, breathing hard as he braced up on his elbows to watch Jaskier work. Aware of his audience, Jaskier tentatively pushed one finger back to rub against Geralt’s hole. Geralt’s hips jerked up, nearly choking Jaskier, and a low-voiced cry escaped. Jaskier looked up sharply, but Geralt’s eyes were wide and pleading, not pained or afraid. 

“You like that.” Jaskier drew back teasingly, and Geralt’s hips pushed up, chasing his mouth before he remembered himself and dropped back to the bed, trying not to squirm. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Geralt watched him, his stomach muscles clenching with the effort of keeping still. “Jaskier.”

“Here.” He grabbed Geralt by the wrist and tugged his hand down to his cock. “Keep yourself occupied a moment.” Geralt wrapped his fingers around the shaft and sighed in relief. 

Reluctant to turn his back on the lovely sight of Geralt languidly fucking his fist, Jaskier slid off the bed and felt around for his bag. There-- he caught the strap and pulled it closer. The oil was right where he’d left it, a small bottle purchased a few days ago when he’d learned from a trader that Geralt wasn’t far ahead of him on the road. At the time, he hadn’t held out much hope for using it with a partner, but he’d have needed it for himself when dealing with the inevitable pangs of lust he suffered when traveling with Geralt. He had to admit, this was a much more pleasant use. 

He held it between his hands to warm it as he watched Geralt, all the ideas of what he could do crowding his mind. He wanted something memorable enough to drive the looming spectre of the rusalka from between them. His heart quailed a little at the thought of fucking Geralt now, having his first memory of that bound up with whatever this was: so-glad-you’re-alive celebration, mutual apology, cleansing ritual. And riding Geralt was out of the question tonight. But there would be other nights, he was abruptly certain. It was more than just a hopeful thought. There would be time to explore every kind of thing they could do together. But now, here, Jaskier wanted Geralt to understand how his body could give both of them pleasure, hopefully in a way he’d still feel in the morning.

“Up,” he said, and slapped a hand against Geralt’s thigh. 

Geralt gave a long-suffering sigh, but he maneuvered onto his hands and knees under Jaskier’s firm guidance, neatly centered on the bed, and with the naked expanse of his scarred back a beautiful sight in the fire’s glow. Jaskier stroked his hands down it a few times, sliding against tense muscles, before he let his right hand stray further down, brushing against the curve of Geralt’s ass. 

“Mm.” Geralt hummed as Jaskier rubbed at his hole with one oil-slick finger. He spread his legs further, though Jaskier hardly needed the encouragement. Jaskier settled on the bed beside Geralt, the best position for playing with him while also being able to catch sight of his face. He teased his finger against Geralt’s hole, sliding against the rim and pressing just slightly in. Geralt’s cock hung full and heavy beneath him, rocking with every small movement of his hips. 

“Are you trying to stay still?” Jaskier didn’t mind either way, but he was curious how far Geralt wished to carry his passivity. 

“I don’t know if I can,” Geralt said, almost too low for Jaskier to hear. 

“You don’t have to.” Jaskier pressed the tip of his finger into Geralt, and basked in the resulting moan. “I’d like it if you let me know when you’re ready for more.”

“I’m ready now,” Geralt grumbled. 

“I didn’t say I’d give you more when you’re ready for it, just that I wanted to know.”

Geralt gave a growl of frustration, but didn’t protest further. And in truth, Jaskier didn’t much want to tease him. He wanted to give Geralt everything he desired. He slid his finger in further, as far as it would go, and Geralt pressed back against him with a grateful sigh. Jaskier twisted his finger inside Geralt, listening to his breathing and the little sub-verbal sounds he made. When they’d turned from pleased back to wanting, he drew his finger out, poured more oil over his hand, then returned with two fingers. At that, Geralt shoved back against him. His body took the doubled thickness easily, and Jaskier gave Geralt a chance to set the pace for a while, letting him fuck himself on Jaskier’s hand to his heart’s content. 

Jaskier had barely touched his own cock, but it throbbed between his legs, twitching every so often when Geralt made a particularly delicious noise. He used his free hand to give it a friendly stroke or two, but had to stop. He hadn’t realized he’d been that close to climax already. But upon reflection, seeing Geralt like this would challenge any man’s endurance. He’d never found anything more erotic than the sight of Geralt losing himself in pleasure, utterly wanton and open under Jaskier’s hands. 

Jaskier stroked a hand down Geralt’s shoulder. When Geralt angled his head back, leaning into the touch, Jaskier slid his hands through Geralt’s hair a few times before resting his hand against his neck, his thumb moving idly to stroke the skin. Holding all of Geralt between his hands sent a bolt of pleasure through him so strong he had to clamp his thighs together in a slightly undignified attempt to prevent finishing too soon. 

Geralt turned his head to look, with the barest hint of a smile. “You all right?”

“If you can worry about that, I’m not giving you enough to think about.” Jaskier drew back so he could coat his fingers in oil again, and this time he pressed three fingers to Geralt’s entrance. He stroked them over the stretched hole and ran them around the rim until Geralt shoved his ass backwards, trying to take what he needed. “All right, all right,” Jaskier said indulgently. He folded his fingers into a narrow wedge and pressed them in. Together, they spread Geralt’s ass delightfully. 

He went slower this time, letting himself feel the tight heat of Geralt’s body consuming what he gave it. Once his fingers were inside, he twisted his wrist, screwing them deeper and wringing new pleading noises from Geralt, who was apparently too far gone at this point to fuck Jaskier’s fingers himself. But Jaskier was happy to oblige, drawing his fingers slowly out all the way, then pressing them in again, watching Geralt open for him more easily each time. 

“Do you want more?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt looked back with wide eyes. He nodded.

“What do you want?”

“You,” Geralt said. When Jaskier only raised an eyebrow, he gave an aggrieved moan and said, “Your hand, Jaskier.” 

“That can be arranged,” Jaskier said indulgently. He poured another measure of oil over his fingers, then pressed forward again, twisting his wrist to drive the three fingers in as deep as they could go. He drew them out again, slow enough that Geralt gave an annoyed huff. Jaskier ignored the impatience, and pressed his pinky finger together with the other three for the return journey. Geralt looked over his shoulder at Jaskier. Jaskier gave him a smile and reached his free hand down to tug at Geralt’s leaking cock. 

“Wait.” Geralt jerked back against Jaskier’s hand. “Not-- not yet.” Incoherent with arousal, Geralt’s face looked more open and, somehow, younger than Jaskier had ever seen him. 

“All right. Not yet.” Jaskier let go of Geralt’s cock and eased his fingers in and out, in and out, drinking in the sight of Geralt gasping for air like he’d been fighting hard, his hands splayed wide against the bed to brace himself. “Ready?”

Geralt nodded jerkily, and Jaskier knew he didn’t need to make him say it out loud. His body was eloquently demonstrating how much he wanted Jaskier. 

Jaskier pressed his thumb flat into his palm and leaned forward, easing his hand past the tight resistance of Geralt’s already-stretched hole. Geralt whined deep in his throat as the widest spread of knuckles began to breach him. Jaskier made soft, soothing noises as he drew his hand back just a little, and pressed forward again. Then it was through, Jaskier’s hand enveloped in the impossibly tight heat of Geralt’s body. Geralt’s head had dropped low, hanging between his shoulders with his eyes shut tight. 

“Geralt, is this--” Jaskier started to withdraw, but Geralt struck quick as a snake, grabbing Jaskier’s free hand. 

“No. Stay. Trying not to come.”

“You could come, if you like,” Jaskier said impishly, accompanying his words with a feather-light brush of his fingers against Geralt’s cockhead. “You can go more than once, surely.”

“No,” he said urgently. “With you.”

Somehow, Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever heard anything more romantic.

“Then it won’t be long.” Jaskier settled his free hand on his own cock, hard and leaking without even being touched, and began curling his fingers inside Geralt, just slightly, before straightening his fingers and pushing in a little further. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was high and strained. 

“Hand on your cock. You can finish when I say so.”

Jaskier twisted his hand one way, then the other, until Geralt jerked under him, bucking hips and a strangled shout giving him away. The sound made Jaskier give the base of his own cock a warning squeeze to remind himself that he should try not to climax immediately. He began to move his hand just slightly, rubbing it in the way that made Geralt desperate for release. He watched Geralt’s whole body as he worked, drinking in every gasp and shudder. Getalt’s hair was damp with sweat, his back bowed as he pushed against Jaskier’s hand, and his mouth open to gulp in breath. Even from this angle, Jaskier could see his golden eyes were glassy and unfocused, lost in pleasure.

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt gasped, and Jaskier couldn’t possibly have denied him. 

“Go ahead.”

Immediately Geralt’s hand pulled at his cock, and Jaskier mirrored his movements, feeling his body tense as his arousal overflowed its bounds with spectacular intensity, crashing over his awareness to drown out all else. Beneath him, Geralt’s hips bucked as he shot his seed over his hand, belly, and the bed beneath him. The sight made Jaskier's cock twitch in his grasp with one more feeble spurt. 

Geralt collapsed into the mattress, arms outspread and panting. Jaskier took a few moments to regain his breath, slumped over Geralt’s prone form. He felt stupid and heavy, and he would have been very content to stay right there forever. That sounded quite nice. 

After a moment, he realized his eyes were in danger of closing, and he still had some duties to attend to. With a sigh, he forced himself up onto his knees. Geralt was still sprawled bonelessly across the bed, eyes shut. Jaskier stroked a hand against his thigh, but he barely twitched. 

“Love, we need to untangle ourselves before you fall asleep,” Jaskier whispered.

“Hm,” was Geralt’s only reply. 

“All right, you. Just relax, then.” Jaskier braced his left hand, still sticky with his own issue, against Geralt’s ass, and pulled his other hand back gently, then more firmly as his hand began to re-emerge. Geralt sighed, but he didn’t tense up, and at last Jaskier’s hand came free.

Jaskier made use of a splash of tepid water from the bath and a scrap of one of his old shirts destined for the rag bag to clean them both up. It took more than a few firm shoves to get Geralt upright long enough to stumble to his own bed. He collapsed into a sprawl, as he always did, but when Jaskier climbed in beside him, he made room for the bard in the circle of his arms.  
\--

Geralt woke with a warm weight pressing him into the bed. He pried open one eye, squinting through the dawn light pouring through the windows, and saw a head of tousled brown hair tucked neatly under his chin. Then he breathed in, and smelled-- _Jaskier,_ relaxed and pliant against him, even though he had every reason in the world to not want to touch Geralt or be touched by him. 

He indulged in only a moment or two of staring. Then he used his preternatural grace to tip Jaskier off to the side and slip out of the bed without waking him. The room was chilled and the wooden floor like ice on his bare feet. The fire needed to be coaxed back to life. Neither of them had been in any state to bank the coals last night before they fell asleep. 

As Geralt crouched in front of the hearth, he felt the pleasant lingering pain from last night where Jaskier had stretched him, and the start of a smile found its way onto his face. He was used to being able to feel a fight the next day, for a little while at least, but very seldom did his body hold on to any reminder of pleasure. Trust Jaskier to find a way to turn a little pain into a virtue.

Once the fire was cracking merrily, he took stock of the room. They’d been through several bottles of wine before taking to their beds the first time, so they hadn’t done much in the way of preparing for the morning. Geralt didn’t yet want to consider where today might take him, and so he turned his attention instead to what Jaskier might need when he awoke. Though Geralt hardly felt the chill, Jaskier always complained of the cold first thing on spring mornings. He gathered up the clothes Jaskier had been wearing last night, and laid them out on the chair he’d moved in front of the hearth, so they’d be warm when Jaskier needed them. After that, he dug out a small bottle of wives’ tears from his supplies, which he put on the table next to a jug of water. Jaskier had kept up with Geralt drink for drink last night, which meant he might still be feeling the effects this morning: wives’ tears would help. 

He retrieved the healing supplies from his pack to set out as well. He would need to gather some celandine to mix up more of the ointment for that bite, but there was enough to get through today. Though he realized, as he stared at the jars in his hands, that he didn’t know if he needed to mix up an extra jar to leave here. He didn’t know if Jaskier wanted him to stay or go. He had wanted the comfort of being with Geralt last night, but that wasn’t an invitation to stay. 

There was nothing else he could think to do for Jaskier, so he considered his own preparations. Most of his things were still gathered in a pile from when he’d tried to leave last night, with some of his clothes lying haphazardly where they’d been flung. He gathered everything of his near the door, and set the purse of coins from the innkeeper on the table where Jaskier would see it. He left his armor and boots with his other baggage, but got into his breeches and shirt. If Jaskier told him to go, he could leave quickly. 

And it was very likely Jaskier would want him to leave, Geralt reasoned. He’d gotten a bit of pleasure in return for the pain Geralt had caused him, and gotten it in a much more pleasant way than Geralt deserved. Jaskier seemed to have forgiven Geralt, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was ready to have a reminder of this ordeal constantly following him around. Geralt wanted to stay, very badly, but wanting was, as always, not the same as doing. If Jaskier needed him gone, he would go.

Seeing nothing else to keep him occupied, Geralt climbed back into bed and lay on his side with his head propped on his elbow. The morning light that filtered in through the windows made Jaskier look downright angelic, relaxed and peaceful as he was, skin bare and tantalizing down to his waist where the blanket covered him. It was so seldom Geralt had the opportunity to look at Jaskier when he wasn't moving. He wanted to memorize this moment, in case he never saw another like it.

Since the bard was still dead to the world, Geralt could allow himself to stare, and even to touch, if only a little. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers gently down Jaskier’s arm. His bruises had changed color, and a few spots of blood had seeped through the bandage that looped around his shoulder, but he certainly wasn’t any worse than he’d been yesterday. So little damage to be left with, considering the harm Geralt could have done him. His fingers stuttered to a stop against Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier muttered something unintelligible and clutched at Geralt’s hand. Then his eyes blinked open slowly to fix on Geralt. “Oh good.” He yawned enormously, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. “No more dreams?”

Geralt had almost forgotten the terrible, urgent dread he’d felt in last night’s dream--not a nightmare, because witchers didn’t have nightmares. He could feel the sword in his hand, Jaskier’s panicked voice pleading with him to stop, the bright coppery smell of blood. His mind shied away from the images, and he shook his head. 

“Maybe sleeping with someone else is good for you.” Jaskier smiled and brushed a strand of hair out of Geralt’s face. 

“Maybe,” Geralt said. With Jaskier’s bright eyes on him, the nightmare seemed far away.

“Speaking of which, I was having a nice dream just now.” 

“Hm?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

“I dreamed you were naked.” Jaskier slid his hand across Geralt’s shoulder to tug at the neck of his shirt.

“Oh did you?” Geralt didn’t voice any objection when Jaskier dragged his hand down Geralt’s front and teased his fingers under Geralt’s shirt to stroke his belly.

“It was rather nice.” 

“Was it only me who was naked?”

“Nooo,” Jaskier chuckled. “You had company.”

Geralt meant to ask “who.” It was the obvious next step in this dance, but a sudden fear seized him that he’d hear a flippant answer that didn’t involve Jaskier at all. Instead, Geralt traced his hand around the edges of the color ringing Jaskier’s black eye. “We should put more salve on these.”

“Later.” Jaskier pushed his hand further up Geralt’s shirt, to stroke his chest. 

“Before breakfast,” Geralt said, trying to sound firm.

“Very well. But don’t worry about that. Worry about this.” Jaskier slung a leg over Geralt’s waist, so Geralt could feel his stiffening cock against his thigh, then rolled his hips forward with a pleased hum.

“I’m supposed to be worried?” Geralt meant it to sound casual, perhaps playful, but he heard the note of genuine concern, and so did Jaskier.

Jaskier propped his head up with a hand and looked sharply at Geralt. “You’re not stuck with me, you know. If you don’t want to do this again, I won’t demand--”

“Why would I not want to?” Geralt said, quickly cutting off any self-recrimination Jaskier might offer. This wasn’t about what Geralt wanted or didn’t.

“You’re ridiculous.” Jaskier sat up and folded his arms over his chest, expression sliding from amused to irritated. “You think I’m going to order you out, you act as if you have have no idea that I’d do everything in my power to keep you, if you wanted to be kept.”

“I’m ridiculous?” Geralt stabbed a finger in Jaskier’s direction. “You have no self-preservation instinct, wanting me to stay. Of course I’d stay if you’d let me-- that’s not the point.”

“Well then why didn’t you just say that?” Jaskier threw up his arms. “I may have been more than a bit drunk last night, but I seem to remember we’d worked this out. But you, so mysterious and stoic, go and brood yourself into a stupor and try to convince me you want to be anywhere else!”

“Me?” Geralt rose to his knees, the better to make his point to Jaskier’s face. “You could have said something! In all the words you spout, you could have at least mentioned something about--”

“Oh, no.” Jaskier was already shaking his head emphatically. “You’re at least as much of an idiot. Possibly more.”

Geralt let him know his opinion about that, and their quarrel quickly degenerated into rutting against each other and panting. Geralt wasn’t entirely certain who had won the argument, but whatever point he’d been trying to make had fallen precipitously down his list of priorities. 

The blankets and Geralt’s clothes were quickly disposed of. Geralt rolled Jaskier over onto the mattress so he could kiss him. Then he found it difficult to stop. Jaskier thrust his hand out of the melee to recover the bottle of oil from the table between the beds. With an impressive display of dexterity, he opened it one-handed before shoving it at Geralt.

Geralt slicked his hand with the last of the oil and took both of their cocks together in his grip. It didn't take much motion, just a rocking of both their hips until Jaskier dug his fingers into Geralt’s arms and climaxed. Geralt breathed in the smell of Jaskier’s issue, and that was enough to push him over the edge as well, spilling between them and holding back the shout that threatened to escape. 

Geralt tipped to the side as he collapsed, landing slumped over Jaskier but at least not crushing him.

“You can’t go back to sleep,” Jaskier grumbled. “You have duties before we can eat.” The bard’s hot breath rasped against Geralt’s shoulder as he idly stroked his fingers through Geralt’s damp hair. He smelled of drowsy contentment.

“Right, of course.” Geralt could see the fingerprint bruises on Jaskier’s hips from where he lay, but the pang of guilt he felt was dampened by the knowledge that he’d be there to help Jaskier heal. He would see the bruises fade, and the wariness leave Jaskier’s eyes, and he would do whatever was needed to make certain the memory of the rusalka didn’t break what was forming between them.

Without bothering to put on clothes, Geralt went to retrieve the supplies he’d laid out. He sat down on the bed next to Jaskier, who sat up obligingly and offered his wrists while slumping lazily against Geralt’s side. 

“I meant to go on to Visnia after this,” Geralt said as he rubbed in the salve over the purpled bruises. “There’s a contract there.”

“Oh?” Jaskier’s muscles tensed, like a flinch, at the news, and that was all the encouragement Geralt needed. 

“I’d rather not go alone.”

“Oh.” Jaskier let out a quick breath, and relaxed against Geralt’s side.

“Is that all right?” Geralt asked, just to be certain.

“Yes.” Jaskier beamed up at Geralt, his face bright and open with some kind of emotion Geralt decided not to try to put a name to. “Yes it is.”

“We should stay at least another two days,” Geralt said as he replaced the lid on the salve. “My reputation would suffer if I rode into Visnia with someone as disreputable-looking as you are right now."

“Disreputable--” Jaskier sputtered, jerking back like an affronted cat. “ _Your_ reputation?!”

“Shh, you’re still ill.” Geralt pressed a finger to Jaskier’s lips, but couldn’t hide his own grin. “You should stay in bed.”

“You beast. You absolute-- come here.” Jaskier grabbed Geralt by the arm and pulled him down.

Geralt dropped into the bed beside him, and they did not rise for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks y'all for reading! As usual, tossing a comment to your writer warms this writer's hard little heart. I have really started falling for these characters, so you can certainly expect more from me about these two in the future.


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